Original story: 2011
Grammar/spelling fixes: 2015
Everything hurt.
Sometimes he forgot his name. The beatings hurt so badly, the Dursleys, that was their last name, right? They hurt him. He was a freak that no one would ever want. never would he be loved, his mother and father, according to the Dursleys, only went out drunk driving that night because they were bad, bad freaks who hated him..
Was it true? Harry didn't know. Harry. That was his name, right? What was his last name again... Potter, wasn't it? Didn't matter anyway. It's not like anyone used his name.
No one knew him. He wasn't allowed to go to school, he wasn't worth it. Freaks don't deserve to go to school.
He wasn't allowed outside, except in the backyard to do his chores. He was a freak, and didn't deserve to be seen, he was so ugly, no one would ever even want to look at him. Such a disgrace. He shouldn't even be alive, that's what they always say, and he always believed them.
The small six year old boy curled into a ball, holding his head in pain from the sizzling hot frying pan that had just been slammed against his head. He had messed up again. He had burnt the bacon. It wasn't the first time he'd messed up their food by accident, he was so useless!
Why did he do that? He was worthless. He couldn't even make food right! They let him stay in their house, even gave him a little room under the stairs! Sure, he shared it with the resident rats and spiders, but that didn't matter! He was so ungrateful!
"You stupid freak! What are you trying to do, poison us? Well, we'll see about that," Vernon Dursley, the man of the house, a large, very large man, yelled at the small cowering child in rags with various bruises, cuts, and broken limbs on the kitchen floor.
This had happened before. The child blamed himself, it was all his fault. The boy knew that everything was his fault. He had come to terms with that before, this pain...
He had felt this pain many times before. Often from his cousin, Dudley Dursley, who was nine, or his uncle, Verson Dursley. Dudley was just as fat as Vernon, but his father just said he was perfect, and his mother, Petunia Dursley, just cooed over the pig, though she didn't bother Harry much.
The tiny six year old never voiced his opinions on his relatives. They didn't matter anyway, his opinions anyway. Who was ever there to listen to his worthless problems, not that Harry would ever complain.
The child with the small height of two' nine, broken green eyes, and messy black hair that never seemed to straighten whimpered. He knew that his uncle was about to do something to him. What, though? Would he chain him to the wall and whip his malnourished body like he had last time he messed up?
What were they going to do to him? He knew it would hurt, that's for certain.
The boy's questions were soon answered. His uncle grinned maliciously, and took out some chains. "Lie down, boy. It's time you learned your lesson." Vernon sneered, kicking the boy in his side.
The child spread out eagle style on the cold floor, as his uncle chained him down. "Now, don't move freak. Petunia, get the left over grease from the fridge, and boil it. Make sure it's sizzling and popping."
Petunia Dursley gave her husband a weary look, wondering what her husband was going to do. As she walked into the kitchen, she heard the couch creak loudly, and figured her 'son' had just sat down.
Contrary to popular belief, she did not hate her nephew, nor her sister. She had to keep up the charade, for she was terrified of her husband. She knew for a fact that if Vernon turned and started beating her, so would her 'son'.
She began boiling the grease in the frying pan that was used to smack the little boy tied to the floor over the head. She was scared. So scared for that poor boy. She often shed tears for him, after making sure her oh- so- loving husband was gone, though. He couldn't see her in her moment of weakness for the boy. Never.
Once the grease was crackling and popping, she turned off the stove, and as she walked into her bright living room with the frying pan filled to the brim with grease, she prayed. She prayed that Vernon wouldn't do something that she would regret letting happen before her very eyes.
Vernon thanked her, and she averted her eyes. She stared at the crimson rug, stained with the blood of an innocent child, and the beige walls, dripping with blood.
A tear fell from her eye, but she wiped it away before anyone saw it. As she stared at the neglected, abused, and just plain broken child chained to the floor, she stopped to think for a moment.
What would have happened if when she found Harry on her doorstep, with the news of her sister Lily's death, who she loved dearly, though was very jealous of, what if she had just taken him- taken him and just ran away with the boy?
She was such a fool back then. She used to be in love. No, it wasn't love, it never was love, and now she was stuck there. With a man who didn't love her, and a child that wasn't hers.
She wasn't a complete idiot, she realized that her husband was cheating on, and always had been, even before they got married. She knew the lazy child on the sofa wasn't hers when she saw his bright blue eyes.
Vernon and Petunia Dursley had brown eyes.
Her eyes flickered to the boy on the floor. Her eyes widened when she saw what was going on.
In her blanked out state, Vernon had gotten Dudley, who was now wearing gloves, to hold open her nephew's eyes. Her jaw dropped, and her scream mingled with the small boy's on the blood stained floor.
She watched in horror as her bastard of a husband poured the crackling and sizzling hot grease into little Harry's eyes.
The small boy struggled against the chains, as he screamed loudly, the grease getting all over his face, in his mouth, and continued to pour into his eyes.
Petunia's knees gave out as she sobbed for the boy on the floor who had stopped screaming, eyes closing, her husband saying, "That ought to teach the brat." Dudley was laughing, and Vernon joined in.
The boy was limp on the floor, -though no one knew he was still conscious- evoking more tears and sobs from her. The sobs wracked her body, and Vernon had stopped laughing when he realized his wife wasn't laughing with him.
He stalked up to his wife, kicking Harry in the face along the way as Dudley grew bored and went up to his room to watch television.
Vernon struggled to do it, but he bent down, and he grabbed his wife's chin, forcing her to look at him. His eyes narrowed in anger. "Why are you not laughing?" he ground out in anger.
Her voice cracked and broke as she sobbed, "How could you! How could you! You... You monster!"
There was a loud thwack as her body smacked into the wall from the force of the punch Vernon had delivered to her face in fury. She continued to cry for the child, as blood began to seep out of her head, smearing onto the already somewhat blood stained wall.
Her husband beat her as hard as he could, knocking her unconscious, then grabbed his wallet and keys, storming out of the doors to go and find a whore to play with or something.
His eyes burned, his insides burned; his face felt like it was melting off and all that was left in his eyes were gaping holes.
He tried to force his eyes open through the excruciating pain, and succeeded, though only slightly, to find a sea of black. He looked around, seeing nothing else. He opened his mouth, though only enough so he could breathe. He tried to say something. He found he couldn't. This only caused a further panic within the small child.
He felt he needed to sleep, so he closed his eyes again, his ears only taking in the rushed, garbled sounds of a door opening with haste and people rushing in, gasping in horror at what they found. He felt large, warm hands picking him up gently, pressing their long slender fingers to his wrist lightly, murmuring something he couldn't make out.
The unknown hands mildly pressed cold rags to his face, but he jerked violently in pain, then became limp once more. They slid water down his throat, and he gagged, spitting it back up, letting it run down his face. It was cold, and it froze his burned skin, burning his heart with a fire that left third degree burns.
He would have whimpered, but he couldn't. They people were shouting again, and he felt even more tired than before. He heard one thing before he fell unconscious, and he wondered one thing.
A smooth, deep, velvety voice whispered gently in his ear, "It will all be okay, just hold on."
What was his name again?